I fancied myself rather worldly and sophisticated. It seems, instead, I have lived a rather sheltered existence.
Do I look younger? I’m sure I must. I just spent a glorious evening drinking exotic cocktails with four of my son’s adorable 20-something friends.
I wish it were just a summer problem. However, in my gentle husband’s “lower 40” (front, back and side yards) bugs, both flying and crawling, happily make their home.
Well, I may well be grappling with gangrene by the time you read this, as I just broke the first rule of having your hand wrapped in a big, annoying cast-bandage thingy. I got it a little bit wet.
I have such fond memories of summer. It meant long, lazy days to read fat books, enjoy carefree beach time and homemade ice cream.
I’m not feeling amusing today. I am feeling righteous anger, or at least I think it’s righteous.
I didn’t really need to mark March 20 as the beginning of spring. I work at a school. All I had to do was walk by a bunch of sixth-graders. There is no more accurate bellwether of the rising sap.